Firebreak Calculus
by Kwizotty
Summary: "It is called the Firebreak Calculus: how much good could I do if I find the right place and fight until I die?" - Mark of the Martyred


_"It is called the Firebreak Calculus: how much good could I do if I find the right place and fight until I die?"_

_-__** Mark of the Martyred**_

* * *

It wasn't a bad spot. Good elevation, large field of view, a few chokepoints - plenty, if he got creative. What bothered Jolmund was how plain it looked. A little hillock in a weedy chunk of woods. Not the kind of place a good story came from.

Jolmund eased himself down against a stump and frowned. He wasn't here to make a story. Only novices thought that way.

Pain burned like prickling fire along his side. He touched a hand to where the pain was strongest and felt warm blood seep between his fingers. The blood was deep red - almost black - and thin as water. A liver wound.

He'd forgotten about that. It must be blood loss making him feel so young and picky again.

The Titan touched the waistcloth belted to his hip. He'd weaved it himself a lifetime ago, after he lead his first pilgrimage. Jolmund smiled. The memory dulled his pain.

It had taken him three weeks to figure out how to sew the Mark, and another two to do it right. Even then it was sloppy: the edges were frayed, the seams were uneven, and the insignia looked more like an oval than a diamond. He swelled with pride every time he looked at it.

Another jolt of pain brought Jolmund back to reality. He set aside his nostalgia, unbuckled his Mark, and tore the waistcloth in half with one quick motion. He packed his wound with one half, then tied the second half around his waist to hold the crude dressing in place. He settled back on the stump and looked up at his Ghost.

"Run those numbers again," Jolmund said.

The little robot's spars spun while it worked through the calculations. Firebreak Calculus wasn't really math, but the Ghost always made a fuss about how arbitrary a concept it was. It got to the point that Jolmund had to go to some egghead Warlocks and make them derive a formula to appease the floating worry-wart. Having real numbers to work with kept things simple, logical, the way the Ghost liked things to be.

Not this time. "Two days, plus or minus five hours."

Jolmund grunted. "You think that'll give them enough time?"

"If they don't stop to sleep."

"They won't sleep." No one ever slept on a pilgrimage.

Jolmund looked down and took stock of what he had left. An unloaded Galahad-E autorifle lay in the grass beside him, along with ten full magazines. Jolmund picked up the Galahad and slid a mag home. He chambered a round, then set the gun on his lap.

"Right." He looked over at his Ghost. "You've got the next one picked out?"

The floating robot bobbed a reluctant affirmative.

"The girl, right?"

Another nod.

"Figured as much." Jolmund realized he was slumping. He straightened himself and continued. "Take her to Paar. He'll be a good mentor. Was for me."

They both went quiet. Jolmund did a field check of his armour, made sure every strap and brace was tight, every plate secure. He stopped mid-check and rapped a knuckle on his right pauldron.

"This is good fieldplate. Shouldn't waste it."

"No," his Ghost agreed.

"The Fallen will pick it apart if they get the courage to come close."

"Yes."

"You know where I'm going with this?"

"We'll come get it when this is all over."

Jolmund held his side and leaned back on the stump. "That's a good Ghost."

They waited together a long while, watched as the sun peeked up over the edge of the world to wrap its orange-red arms around the sky. Jolmund had seen thousands of sunrises on three different planets. Earth's had always been the best.

His Ghost's sensors blared an alert. "Skiffs inbound," it said. "They'll be here in ten minutes."

"That's that, then." Jolmund forced himself to look at the rising sun, thankful for his helmet's tinted visor.

The Ghost's spars dipped. It hung around a moment longer, then left quiet as the wind.

Jolmund breathed deep. The Ghost had to leave. The pilgrims needed a guide, and the Fallen needed to be slowed down. He couldn't do both. They'd both do more good this way.

As he watched the dawn, the Titan held his side and thought of better times. The sun inched higher into the sky.

A low hum echoed across the valley and roused Jolmund from his reflection. He saw the skiffs in the distance, brass pinpricks hurtling towards his plain little hillock.

They were coming. Jolmund flicked the safety off his Galahad and waited.


End file.
